master orange belt

Scenes from Buddy's Taekwondo belt test tonight.

Sparring with a black belt. Nice shot.

And taking one down to the ground!

Breaking his board on the first try!

Way to go, Buddy!

breaking up is hard to do

My Bub, winning her third straight title as Beam State Champion. Words cannot express how proud I am of the things my daughter has accomplished in the last three years, the overwhelming majority of which don't come with a title or a medal.

We made the tough decision tonight to pull Bub from the team early. We'd planned already for this to be her last season. Competing interests have become a strain. The cost has become a strain. The schedule and transportation have become a strain. But we hadn't planned for this.

A back injury one week after winter States has not healed. And, in fact, it has gotten worse. The doctor has ordered 4-6 weeks out of the gym. Spring States are in nine. That doesn't seem feasible. And so we've done the difficult thing.

After coming back from a broken upper arm and several months of PT her first season to win the All-Around State Champion Title last spring, we were pretty psyched to see what she could do entering the season on a more even playing field. In her first five meets, she made one of the top two spots on the podium for all-around four times. To say that we are disappointed is an understatement. But.

But. We believe that this doorway closing paves the way for other doors to open. And she is fortunate that there are several other doors awaiting her. While this is not how we wanted this to end for her, we are thankful she is in agreement with our decision and, as she has learned how to do throughout these past three years, is taking it in stride. That, to me, is the attitude of a champion.

Not all victories come with trophies. Nor do they always feel victorious at the time. But they are victories, nonetheless.

for my firework...

...as she tries to sleep after we've just talked about the possibility that we might be ending gymnastics sooner than we planned...

Firework
(Katy Perry)

Do you ever feel like a plastic bag
Drifting through the wind
Wanting to start again

Do you ever feel, feel so paper thin
Like a house of cards
One blow from caving in

Do you ever feel already buried deep
Six feet under scream
But no one seems to hear a thing

Do you know that there's still a chance for you
Cause there's a spark in you

You just gotta ignite the light
And let it shine
Just own the night
Like the Fourth of July

Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what your worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby you're a firework
Come on let your colors burst
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
You're gunna leave 'em fallin' down-own-own

You don't have to feel like a waste of space
You're original, cannot be replaced
If you only knew what the future holds
After a hurricane comes a rainbow

Maybe your reason why all the doors are closed
So you can open one that leads you to the perfect road
Like a lightning bolt, your heart will blow
And when it's time, you'll know

You just gotta ignite the light
And let it shine
Just own the night
Like the Fourth of July

Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what your worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby you're a firework
Come on let your colors burst
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
You're gunna leave 'em fallin' down-own-own

Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon
It's always been inside of you, you, you
And now it's time to let it through

Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what your worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby you're a firework
Come on let your colors burst
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
You're gunna leave 'em goin "Oh, oh, oh!"

Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon
Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon

I love you, Bub. You're still gonna shine.

You're still gonna shine.

rockin' the new look

This summer Bub joined Mid-Day Son, a band created by a group of her friends at school. Here they are leading worship last night for a middle school lock-in.

Sorry for the onslaught of pictures. Have to keep the family happy.

I hope to post WORDS very soon!

redemption

Forgive me, but I'm going to be an obnoxious parent for a moment. Particularly given that Bub's last meet did not go so well...

36.525 (Finally--the necessary 36!)

First place vault

First place beam

Fourth place floor

SECOND PLACE ALL-AROUND

There were no tears this meet. THANK YOU JESUS. Which was a particularly good thing, given she had four friends from school there and seven family members!

She and her buds claimed the podium for all-around. Above you have first, second, and third!

Thank you for your patience. We now resume normal programming.

Oh wait, this IS normal programming...

for my mom...

...who has waited patiently to see a picture of my tree. or one of my trees, namely the one she created all the 100 snowflakes for as my birthday present this year, despite her insistance over the past 39 years that she would gladly teach me to crochet, as that was the only way i was going to come by a tree full of snowflakes.

thanks, mom.

oh, and my kiddos thrown in for good measure. it is for my mom, after all...

airborn, take two

Bub had her third meet of the season today. Fourth place all-around for her age bracket. Would have been higher, but learned a hard lesson about gravity on her dismount from the uneven bars. (Translation: she fell on her FANNY.)

Giving that the apple does not far from the Perfectionism Tree, she of course is not happy unless she's at the top of the podium. After a frank discussion about the fact that she's outscoring some of her teammates from last year even after being out for four months with a COMPOUND FRACTURE, she calmed down. But she's still aiming for that top spot...

Here's a couple shots of her in action!

No wonder I get so nervous!

Way to go, Bub!!!

catching up

I suppose it would be so much easier to share pictures on FaceBook, but I just can't bring myself to jump into that black hole of time-sucking oblivion. So, here is what we've been up to this fall!

Bub's first "official" USAG meet. 34.95 overall score (out of 40). Not bad for a kid who was out for five months with a broken arm!

The day after the meet, we met up with the rest of my family to go hiking in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. This is us with my folks and my "little" brother and his family.

The kiddos climbing on the rocks. My mom emailed me the next day and said she couldn't sleep that night because she kept having visions of her grandchildren falling off rocks. I had to laugh. No reason. I certainly did NOT have the same problem...



I love my Bub... She's such a happy kid!


This past weekend we camped at Pokagon State Park in northwestern Indiana. We used to camp here frequently when I was growing up--I've not been there for almost ten years. It was great to go back!



My Buddy! Could he be any cuter?!?!

Loving the fall color!

the big day

I really have actually done a little writing, but have been on the road and getting these kiddos set for school. Hope to post some of it tomorrow, perhaps!

My baby, first day of first grade. Where has the time gone? (Where have his CHEEKS gone? Not to mention his TEETH?!?!)

My FIFTH GRADER. Ugh. I am getting OLD. (Isn't she pretty?)

Two peas in a pod...


...all the way down to their toes!

ready or not, here she comes

She hurtles down the run-way full speed ahead and jumps onto the spring loaded board, exploding upward with a force that belies her size or age, and lands that force directly upon her arms, which then propel her into the air and over the top of the vault. I cringe internally, then breathe a sigh of relief as she sticks her landing, the arm having carried her there. The arm is healed—but my heart is not. I have a feeling this is going to be a long, long three hours.

Bub is back in the gym after her four month arm ordeal, and she is back with a vengeance. Having broken the arm a mere three days before team tryouts, her coach informed me, once released by her doctor to return, that she'd been invited to join the team based on her coaches recommendations and her scores from the past year. Lots of prayer and a huge financial leap of faith later, my daughter is now a competitive gymnast.

Today is practice number three, but the first I've been able to attend. I am, as is usual, surprised by my daughter's strength and ability. Other than not being able to execute the round-off double back handspring yet, she looks pretty darn good. She's got some work to do, but, quite frankly, no more than some of the girls who have been continuing to work for the past four months.

There is some fear that will have to be overcome, but her first week back has already re-bolstered some of her confidence. This is essential—for us both. Her team manual reads, "While winning is not so important, trying to win represents everything we strive for. Trying to win means coming to practice every day, working hard, overcoming fear, getting up every time you fall down, setting and achieving goals, and getting up on a 4" beam to perform skills difficult to do well on the floor. We do not try to win in the abstract. We try to win in the real world where rules apply, comparisons are made, judgment calls are the norm, grace under pressure is expected, and where falling and failing are part of everyday life."

She must be ready. To fall. To fail. To get up. To go back.

And I must be ready, too. To catch. To comfort. To trust. To let go.

As for which of us will have the harder time, I cannot yet tell you…

bub's big adventure

A "Proud Momma" moment--please forgive me. Bub started her National Youth Leadership camp this week. She was nominated by her teacher and accepted into the program. She wrote letters to help raise funds, and came up with half the money "herself." Pretty exciting!

back at the gym

Another meet on Sunday... Three blue ribbons and one red, including the blue for this event. Almost a clean sweep!

(I promise I won't bore you with thousands of gymnastics pictures. But look at her--how can I help it?)

speech meet

Bub (in the middle) with two good buddies at the ACSI regional speech meet this past Friday. Three kids from each class get chosen to go--last year, she learned about disappointment. This year, she tasted success. Despite being sick (and you thought I was kidding when I blamed the kids), she received a Superior rating and a very pretty blue ribbon. Next year, she wants to write her own speach. You go, girl!

Writing will resume when I can lift my head up off the couch long enough to pull out my laptop. Gathering complete thoughts and forming them into sentences doesn't seem to be a realistic goal at this point. So, in the meantime, me and the cat and my extra ten pounds aren't going any where. Season Three, here we come.

falling

“We’re all going to fall in this life,” he intones in his trying-not-to-sound-like-a-Brooklyn accent. “When you fall, fall with awareness and acceptance.” I am standing on one foot, my other foot perched on my inner thigh. My clasped hands stretch up above my head into “tree pose” and I try not to notice my ankle wobbling ever so slightly. I gaze across the living room, my eyes focused on an object across the way, and I stand firm. This time.

I have had my share of falls. Balance is not one of my strong suites, literally or figuratively. I have gracefully entered a pose only to end up galumphed on my fanny with the beautiful, resounding type of thud you only get from hard wood floors. I have landed spread eagle center stage in front of hundreds of people, which, coincidentally, creates this same resonant thud, only louder. I have sopped up ice rinks, wiped up flights of stairs, and taken home large chunks of muddy trail all over my tail end. I have tripped, I have careened. I have wobbled, I have walloped. I have, indeed, fallen in this life.

As for the awareness and acceptance piece, the verdict is still out. I would like to think I am less mortified than I used to be—more able to laugh at myself, less worried about what an idiot I must have looked like. I’ve come to accept that this is just part of who I am—I am the girl who has to hold the railing every time she goes down the steps. The girl who must always look where she is going when she’s walking. Or driving. Or moving at all. The girl who should stick to sledding and never try skiing, since she’s bound to end up on her fanny anyway, so why not start there. So, I guess I could say that the acceptance piece is coming right along.

My daughter got a taste of this lesson—falling with acceptance—over the weekend. It was a hard one to watch. Coming off of her last gymnastics extravaganza, she went into this past weekend’s meet with great expectations. An expert at expectations, both met and unmet, I encouraged her to just do her best and enjoy herself. Nothing like an unmet expectation to spoil a perfectly good evening. Or week. Or life. But I digress.

Warm ups went swimmingly, and I tried once again to be content with sitting in the chairs and not being the coach. So many words of wisdom to impart, if only there were someone there to listen. Would those words have made the difference? Who knows.

They lined up along the floor for their first event, the uneven bars. One of her favorite events, this was usually a high score for her. She should be off to a good start. She told me later that as she watched the other girls go through their routines, she began to get nervous because the judge seemed “really strict.” When her turn finally came, she ponied up to the bar and began to swing. “I told myself I was gonna do my best, Momma. I told myself I was gonna get a 9.” She went at her routine in earnest, and probably a little too fast. She ended up falling out of two important elements, and walked away with a 6.9. She wouldn’t even look at me, or her yellow ribbon.

My heart ached for her—I knew the feeling of coming off a huge success only to have a failure meet you where another happy, shining moment was supposed to be. I also knew how hard it would be to refocus for the remaining three events, if she were to try to redeem the rest of the day. I wanted desperately to talk to her. I had to hope past conversations would resound in her head instead. She moved on to the beam, and managed to pull off a nearly flawless routine. Red ribbon this time—though many parents around us thought her score should have been higher, I was just relieved she had pulled it together. But I still wanted to talk to her.

As luck would have it, this particular meet was held in two separate but connected gymnasiums, which meant a huge shifting of crowds and athletes was necessary half way through the event. I took advantage of this mass exodus to snag her and her ribbons. I looked down at the yellow ribbon, where she had written “I sucked” on the back of it. On the front she had crossed out “Achievement” and had scribbled in the word “Failure.” I gave her a “what is this about” look. “I SUCKED,” she verbalized, burying her head in my chest and receiving my embrace. I pulled back from her and took her face in my hands.

“You’ve got to shake it off, Bub. Everybody falls. You’ve got to shake it off and keep going. Thinking that way isn’t going to help you.”

“But Momma…”

“No buts, Bub. You remember Momma’s yoga video? What does he say about falling? We ALL fall, don’t we? We have to fall with what?”

She looked at me blankly.

“We have to fall with awareness and acceptance. Acceptance. You fell. So what. Shake it off, and go do your best.”

She grinned, slightly embarrassed. “Okay, Momma…” And off she bounced.

Wouldn’t you know, she pulled herself together, and pulled off a 9.1 on floor and a 9.05 on vault. Two blue ribbons. The day had been redeemed.

In the car on the way home, she lamented that she had hoped for four blue ribbons, like the perfectly tall and proportioned Amanda from one of the lower levels had gotten. “Acceptance, Bub. It’s about acceptance. You pulled it together after a rough start and got two of the highest scores of the day—I think that’s pretty huge. Don’t you?”

She wouldn’t answer me, but I didn’t push it. We pulled into the Cracker Barrel parking lot and I simply announced that we are going to celebrate. The night had been a huge success, and we were going to acknowledge it. She ordered the biggest breakfast she could find on the menu, ate it all in one sitting, and together, with smiles and laughter all around, we celebrated falling and getting back up again.

an all-around proud momma

Bub had her first "real"meet today--and won the all-around title for her age group and level! Two first places on vault and floor, and a second and third place on beam and bars!

Chalking up for the uneven bars.

Airborn...

I wish Tom had done the one where you can see the muscles in this kid's arms. AMAZING. Really. This kid is freakishly strong...

grace and muscle

Were you to emblazon my daughter’s approach to life across the front of one of those cute, trendy little t-shirts, it would read: “If a little is good, a LOT is BETTER!” She comes by this honestly—I didn’t learn moderation myself until, well, I’ve never learned moderation. So it shouldn’t surprise me that my daughter goes at gymnastics just as hard as she does everything else in her life.

When it comes to flipping and flopping, my daughter has the power and the raw talent, but she lacks the self-control. “My hip bones hurt, Momma,” she tells me one morning after practice. They have been doing their “strong arms” on the bar and practicing “popping” their hips off the bar. Popping for most girls looks like rising two to three inches off the bar five or six times. Not my daughter. My daughter takes popping to a new level. Literally.

My daughter pops so high and so fast that she is nearly flipping herself over the bar. This is a clear snapshot of her personality—unchecked energy run amok. Her little face red and sweaty, her muscles taut and twitching, her body in constant, exaggerated motion. This is my daughter, every day of her life.

The cheerleaders at our high school chant, before taking the floor, “Grace and Muscle, Hunh!” My daughter asks me, one day, what this means. We talk about the balance between strength and beauty, between power and control, between energy and discipline. She wrinkles her nose at me. “That doesn’t make any sense,” she says.

No, to her, I imagine it doesn’t. She comes by all-or-nothing honestly, and that will take some time to deprogram. Her teacher, fortunately, is graciously patient, guiding her along that narrow beam. Teaching her to listen to her body and to know how much is too much. Teaching her how to sustain her energy for the long haul. Teaching her how to moderate her impulses. Teaching her self-control. Oh, how I wish I’d learned these lessons at her age.

Over the course of the morning, she has already improved. Her teachable nature saves her from rampant impulsivity once again. I am relieved. She beams as she crosses the gym, leaping and bounding, all arms and legs and energy again. But there was a brief, fleeting moment there—back on the high bar—when grace and muscle came together, and I could see into her future. And it was a beautiful thing to behold.

today's lesson is brought to you by the letter "D"

Today, my sensitive, spirited daughter learned the "D-word." Curled up in her booster seat, she sniffled noisily as I maneuvered my way through the slush-covered streets. We were supposed to be headed somewhere else, but because of the snow, we were headed home. My heart broke for her, but there was nothing I could do.

Disappointment. Today, he and my daughter became well-acquainted.

Selections for district speech meet representatives were made in January. One child for each category from each class. "I really hope I get picked this year, Momma," she confided one night. And so I helped her prepare. Every night we rehearsed, and, sure enough, she came home beeming one afternoon. It was the first year she'd been selected, and she was as pleased as punch with herself, as she should have been. I was thrilled for her and frightened for her at the same time. If all went well, it would be a great experience. If not, well...

And so it was that I was prepared for her to forget a line or fumble a sentence, but was not prepared for the weather. Speech meet was cancelled, in the midst of a midwestern snow storm, not to be rescheduled. I came into the classroom to pick her up, and her nose was red. She held it together until we got out to the hall. "They aren't going to re-do it, Momma," she cried into my coat. "I'm not going to get to go. I worked so hard, and now I don't get to do it."

I teared up for her then, just as I do again, now. This is a hard lesson for a third-grader to learn. It is a hard one for a tender-hearted mother to watch, as well. We curled up on her bed at home, the colorful outfit we'd negotiated the night before now splotched with her tears, and I let her cry herself out. "Mrs. Smith told me it was nothing to cry about," she sobbed. I sat her up and turned her toward me.

"You listen to me, Sweetpea," I said. "This time, Honey, your teacher is WRONG. This is the PERFECT thing to cry about, and you can cry all you need to, do you understand?" She nodded, burying her head in my shoulder again. "This is a very disappointing thing, and it is perfectily okay to be sad. Don't let anybody tell you differently, Baby."

I waited for a break in her emotion, and I went on. "But here's the thing, Sweetie. You be sad now while you're sad, and you get all that sad out. But then you've got to take all that sad, and you've got to put it all in your hands, and you've got to give it to Jesus. And you've got to tell him, 'Jesus, I'm so sad. Will you please help me not to be sad anymore?' And then you've got to choose to stop being sad, and focus on what's next. Be sad all you need to right now, Honey. But in a little bit, we need to give it to Jesus, so you won't need to be sad anymore."

She looked up at me and nodded, and in a few minutes looked up again and said, "I'm ready to be done being sad now, Momma." And so we took that sad, and we placed it at the foot of the cross, and we got up, and we went sledding.

Disappointment is painful, but it is not fatal. Perhaps she and I will learn that one together, as we both continue to grow up. Perhaps our hearts will toughen up, perhaps not. But at least she is learning where to go with that tender heart to receive peace. I pray that THIS lesson is the one that sticks in her mind the most.

Asleep now, after a night of movies and dancing and chocolate, she looks like a contended angel. I am cautiously relieved. We made it through the evening. And though I would have given anything to see her recite her poem, I have never been more proud of her than I am at this moment.

fun times at the fun run

Forgive me, but I have to play the Proud Momma for a moment. First place, second grade girls. 7:41. First girl across the finish line, grades K-3. The only two girls faster were 5th graders. Okay, I'm done now. This is taken at the finish line.

in her element

The same face that was blank in class earlier is now rapt with attention. The same hand that could not be coaxed to rise as she stared blankly at the walls, lost in thought, is now the first to shoot up from her side, the springs in her legs propelling it even higher. The same spirit that hung as limp and lifeless from her body as her oversized uniform now is now pulsing again, threatening to leap from her muscular frame as she propels herself through space and time.

The gym resembles a three-ring circus gone awry—a dizzying array of bodies twisting and turning, flinging and flying, leaping and landing. My eyes bounce from one flip-flopping figure to the next, as I consider my daughter’s own flip-flopping act as of late. Alert and attentive. Distracted and spaced out. Engaged and animated. Detached and disconnected. For the time being, she is landing on her feet. But it is not enough to free me from worry…

Here, however, liberated from her prison of “sit stills” and “don’t moves,” is the child I recognize, whose every movement is accompanied by a bounce and every achievement celebrated with a wide-mouthed, toothless grin. This is the child I remember—my sparkling, spirited sprite. But there are still signs, even here. She flits back and forth between the various apparatuses—from bars to beam and back while the instructor tries to instruct her. She is redirected easily, however—all energy propelled into appropriate motion, for once.

I watch with relief as, like a toy wound too tight, she is finally released. It is a glorious sight as her spry, spring-sprongy legs unshackle her, if but momentarily, from the constraints of gravity and grade school, and she flies. Free. My daughter is finally free.

Willing her body to obey her will, she achieves that upon which she had set her sights and rings the bell to announce to the world her conquest. In this battle for control over her body, she has been the victor. Her eyes search for mine in the bleachers, checking to be sure I have noticed. I have, indeed.

All my fears for her—unfounded here. My daughter is, at long last, in her element.

fast friends

My daughter and Laura are getting on fabulously, as evidenced by the fact that she read THREE CHAPTERS on her own Sunday afternoon while the rest of the family napped. She not only READ them, she UNDERSTOOD them and could tell me what took place in each chapter. (May I just remind you that four months ago she was not officially reading yet?) I'm ecstatic about her love for reading (and her love for Laura), but half the fun was going to be getting to re-read them myself! In the words of my son, "Oh MAN!"

I guess I'd better catch up if I want to enjoy them as well!